Carson's Long War
by Ferrard Carson
Summary: Humanity's very survival depends on the men and women of X-Com. These are stories of humanity's finest, their trials, their successes, their failures. [Prose dramatizations of select missions from a Long War campaign]
1. Ignatyev I: Rookie

**PFC Ignatyev I: Rookie**

Strike Team Alpha:

LT. Aleksandr "Juggernaut" Novikov (Gunner)  
>SGT Terminal "Batman" Boy (Assault)<br>CPL Ashley "Chief" Williams (Infantry)  
>LCPL Patricia Martinez (Medic)<br>SPEC Fiona Morrison (Scout)  
>SPEC Hans Mulder (Rocketeer)<br>PFC Andrey Ignatyev (Rookie)

**X-Com "Zander" HQ - Cheyanne Mountain, Colorado  
>Hanger Prime, 0103 hours, May 16<strong>

The klaxons blared as I strapped the laspistol to my holster and hefted the heavily modified G-36 in my hands. It was still warm from the exercises Strike Team Bravo had been going through. It should've been in Corporal Bones's hands, but he was still in quarantine after the last abduction, and I was here in his place.

My name is Andrey Ignatyev, and I am the best of the best Mother Ukraine could offer. They've sent me to America on a mission of the utmost importance and secrecy. My own wife does not know where I am or what I am here to do, though I am sure she suspects.

I am here to fight aliens.

My boots followed in the footsteps of six others out of the armory. A German weapons specialist, Mulder, with rocket in tow. Morrison, a nervous Scots-woman with frightened eyes peering out from under her fritz helmet. Martinez the medic. Ashley "Call me 'Chief'" Williams, the rifleman (rifle-woman?) who'd been instructing all of us rookies on how to use these frighteningly effective laser weapons. Terminal Boy, Strike Five and my team leader for this run. Lastly, Strike Six: Lieutenant Novikov, a Russian. Not three months ago, I'd be on the other side of the Donetsk DMZ from the lieutenant, our Special Forces teams vying for advantage in that pisspot of a "nation." But now we are here, united as humans against the alien invaders.

His eyes fixed on mine as we settled in the jump seats and pulled the harnesses down over our shoulders. No doubt similar thoughts had run through his head. For all I know, he may have been the gunner that caught my team in terrible enfilade fire one September afternoon, but since I arrived he has been my mentor and closest friend. It was with joy that I sprang to my feet when he asked me to be a part of his Alpha team.

Lieutenant Novikov's briefing was quick. A UFO hunting for our satellites had been shot down in the Kansas farmland. It crashed into a field right next to a huge industrial farm. The kind with tractors and combines and machines and automation that would make papa green with envy. Americans. They don't know how rich they have it. A quick Aurora flyover told us all we needed to know: some aliens survived. Opposition expected on the ground. We'd split into two teams on the ground - Lieutenant Novikov leading Yellow team and Sergeant Terminal Boy leading Black. I was part of Black, the maneuver element to Yellow's base-of-fire.

"Sergeant?" the other Black Team member asked. "Why're you called 'Batman'?"

"Because I am the fuckin' night!" Terminal responded.

"Don't you believe him none, Fiona," Ashley said. "He's 'Batman' because he's blind as a bat. We were both on that Supply Barge last month and Sarge here couldn't see an outsider who was literally five feet in front of him. Blind as a bat. 'Batman'."

"Shaddup, 'Chief,' you ruin a good story!" Terminal pouted. "You believe me, right Ell-Tee? I'm the night!"

"Sure, you're the night," Novikov grumbled with a grin.

Terminal waved his hand dismissively. "Pah, unbelievers, all of you!" He turned to me. "Andy, if you've been listening to 'Chief' when she's talking, you might one day be as cool as me. You might be the night too. So tell me, what's most important about aliens?"

_What was most important? What did 'Chief' always stress?_ "They die if you put a laser in 'em."

"That's right, Rook. Now, this is just as important: what about their behavior? Did 'Chief' go over that with you?"

"They panic easy if you overwhelm them the moment you see them."

"Also right, Rook - 'Chief' did a good job with your grey matter, didn't she?"

"Yes, sir."

"Sir? I ain't no sir, he's a sir!" Terminal pointed to the lieutenant. "I am the night."

* * *

><p><strong>Carlton Ranch, 5 mi. northwest of Jetmore, Kansas<strong>  
><strong>LZ Orel, 0138 Hours, May 16<strong>

"Comms check," Lieutenant Novikov said from my right ear. "Zander HQ, this is Strike Six, do you read?"

A distorted voice emerged from my left-side earpiece. "Strike Six, Zander HQ. I read you five-by-five."

"Orders?"

"Fan out and secure the LZ. UAV is deploying now, I will have intel and orders for you shortly."

The ramp opened and slammed into the rough, patchy grass of a Kansas farm in the midst of renovations. Lieutenant Novikov and Chief's lasers were already propped on the sides of the cargo door, ready to open fire, but nothing greeted us except the shrill whine of the Skyranger's VTOL jets. Terminal stepped off, and Fiona and I followed close behind.

All was quiet as the Skyranger buttoned up behind us and Strike Team Alpha fanned out through the farmland. Terminal gestured me forward, and I stepped over to a stack of rectangular hay bales ready for loading. My hands were tight around my lasgun as I scanned the darkness for something that thirsted for my blood. In the corner of my eye, something twitched.

The Commander's voice came from my left again. "Be advised. Incoming. North. 50 meters. Two seekers, one cloaked, one high. Engage immediately."

_Lesson #14 from "Chief" - look up more!_ I swung my lasgun up, finger in the trigger guard, praying that it wasn't too late, and suddenly the world was filled with nothing but the swarming, wriggling seeker flying directly towards my head, an angry, seething mass of smoke and tentacles and-

**-TO BE CONTINUED-**

* * *

><p><strong>X-Com Procedures: Strike Team Rotation<strong>

Three Strike Teams are maintained on rotation at any time, codenamed Alpha, Bravo and Charlie by their level of readiness. Strike Team Alpha is held on call at all hours of the day, always on-base and ready to deploy in ten minutes. Strike Teams Bravo and Charlie are held on base and expected to conduct tactical exercises both in Central Officer Bradford's simulations and against one another. Bravo is held on base on a twenty-minute deployment order, while Charlie is given leisure time up to half-an-hour off-base, with a one-hour deployment order. Troops not assigned to a Strike Team are on individual training regimes and form X-Com's reserves until such time as they are rotated onto a Strike Team (generally Charlie). Teams remain on-call for 48-hours, after which Alpha is returned to the reserves, the other two Strike Teams move up the listing, and a new Strike Team Charlie is formed from the reserves.

* * *

><p>AN: These are dramatizations of vignettes from X-Com: Enemy Within with Long War mod, written to complement a Lets Play series I'm producingwith Folk ARPS ~ Ferrard


	2. Ignatyev II: Baptism

**PFC Ignatyev II: Baptism**

Strike Team Alpha:

LT. Aleksandr "Juggernaut" Novikov (Gunner)  
>SGT Terminal "Batman" Boy (Assault)<br>CPL Ashley "Chief" Williams (Infantry)  
>LCPL Patricia Martinez (Medic)<br>SPEC Fiona Morrison (Scout)  
>SPEC Hans Mulder (Rocketeer)<br>PFC Andrey Ignatyev (Rookie)

**Carlton Ranch, 5 mi. northwest of Jetmore, Kansas**  
><strong>LZ Orel, 0142 Hours, May 16<strong>

_This is how I die_, was my first thought. A tentacled horror the likes of which I have never seen in my darkest nightmares, swarming through the air toward my face as I took my first steps out of the LZ.

My second thought was, _Fuck that!_ Distantly I could hear someone crying out, "Seeker!"

It was still ten meters away when I pulled the trigger. My lasgun belched a vicious lance of ruby light and stabbed into the seeker's side. A gout of flame jetted from the monstrosity and it kept coming, but its unpredictable, eratic movements turned into a graceful ballistic arc that terminated in a hail of energy from Lieutenant Novikov's autolaser.

The seeker's smoldering wreckage skimmed over my head and crashed into the ground as Novikov hauled his weapon back around. "Guns up," the lieutenant said. "Stay close and watch each other's backs! Morrison, pull back from that flank, let him come to us!"

To our left, the Scot replied, "Yes lieutenant, I—Wait!"

"Morrison, do you- Terminal!" Novikov looked at my team leader, his command unspoken but understood.

"Andy, on me!" Terminal shouted as he hefted his shotgun and took off running towards Morrison's last known location. In my left ear, I heard the distorted tones of our commander at Zander HQ: "Be advised, second seeker has engaged Specialist Morrison."

Terminal disappeared behind the corner and I heard the blast of his shotgun as I turned and brought him into view. Stray pellets were bouncing everywhere – his shot must have glanced off the tentacled monstrosity.

It was thrashing around in a ball of confusion, but I could see that it had one mechanical tentacle wrapped around Morrison's throat, and its erratic movements were very obviously meant to snap the Specialist's neck like a twig – it was a miracle that she hadn't been killed already. I brought my lasgun to bear and suddenly my sights were filled with nothing but Morrison's terrified face.

Her screaming visage vanished just as quickly and she was rammed headfirst into the side of the silo hard enough to leave a dent. Terminal's shotgun belched again, striking true at the wriggling terror, and a tentacle spun off, severed at its base. It curled and twitched, still wrapped around Morrison's neck, as the seeker snarled at Terminal and launched itself in the air, its "mouth" opening to reveal a wicked looking gun barrel, glowing green.

My shot was clear, and I took it. The mouth must have been unarmored, for the lasgun cored straight through the seeker and emerged out the top of its head. The wreckage went ballistic and came crashing down to the ground not five feet from where Morrison was unwinding the severed tentacle and struggling to her feet, dazed from her brush with death.

Terminal squared her shoulders and placed her lasgun back in her hands. "Tough it out, Morrison – we gotta see this through."

"Right with you, Sarge," the Scot replied between coughs. She kicked the still-active tentacle away from where it was trying to wrap around her leg.

"Andy," Terminal turned to me. "Nice shooting."

The wreckage smoldered at my feet. Not ten feet away, Novikov was kicking the other seeker over, bits and pieces falling off that first thoroughly-shredded automaton. I'd killed one and helped with the other.

The lieutenant said, "Negative contact."

Terminal responded, "Agreed. All clear."

"Were those scouts?" I asked Novikov. "Did they get off a warning?"

"These types don't seem to communicate – Dr. Vahlen says they're fully automated – no sentience or cooperation at all, just operational parameters. Trust me, you'll know when an X-ray calls out to the other ETs." Novikov turned back North, venting coolent from his autolaser as he called in to HQ. "Zander HQ, Strike Six. Orders?"

The commander spoke from our left ear again. "Strike Six, Zander HQ – UAV has the UFO on scope one-zero-zero meters north, and there's a meld signature to your front left. Recommend you split your squad. Secure the meld on the left and clear the barn to your right. Use the cover of the barn to sneak closer to the UFO without alerting any crew inside."

"Concur, Zander HQ. Wilco." To us: "Terminal, take Black Team up to the meld canister and secure it for the salvage team. You know the drill. Yellow, on me and stack up on the barn."

I paced Terminal, Fiona following behind, rubbing her neck where bruising was just starting to emerge. Behind us, I heard a muted, "3… 2… 1… Turn!"

The meld canister was like the ones I'd seen in the training vids, pulsing with a strange alien energy. Terminal looked at us and said, "Watch" as he nimbly plucked something off of the rotating top. Instantly, the blast shield atop the canister splayed open like a flower, revealing a glowing gold crystal. It pulsed and morphed in strange, regimented ways unlike anything I'd ever seen.

"And that's how you do it," Terminal said. "Now let's see if they've gotten the party started."

Yellow had cleared the interior of the barn, and as we jogged back over, Novikov was lifting open a tilting window for Mulder to climb through, rocket launcher and all. The thing clanked against the frame, the muted sound seeming to echo forever through the empty building. He paused in the open ground between the barn and the UFO and glanced around – we held our breath.

_Clear_ Mulder signed to us. The lieutenant gestured us forward, and we each climbed through the window as quietly as we could, padding forward in the no-man's land until I felt the strangely reassuring bulk of alloy hull cold against my left arm. In front of me, Martinez the medic was eying a meld canister to our front. To my rear, Mulder was eying another meld canister himself on the other side of the UFO. I glanced around, nervous. _What if an alien saw us now? What if they're over there in the tractors?_

Then hopefully I wouldn't feel a thing. They said that plasma weaponry burned away the nerve connections so cleanly that the wounds were painless. The screaming I'd heard before from the infirmary seemed to indicate otherwise, but whatever made me most comfortable with the idea of impending death was what I focused on. _Plasma is painless. Plasma is painless._

A hand patted my shoulder, and I did the same to Martinez. We shifted forward – I took the corner and watched to the right as she padded forward, scanning to her left into the UFO itself.

Nothing.

She reached the meld and did the same flourish Terminal had done, and the canister flowered in its unnatural beauty. I glanced behind me and saw Mulder disarm his canister too, the lieutenant's autolaser and 'Chief's heavy lasgun keeping a weather eye on the proceedings. All was going well.

And then it wasn't.

I could _feel_ something go wrong. It chilled my bones as I felt an unearthly wail sweep through my body that I couldn't hear, and time slowed as I felt 'Chief' jog me into movement.

Mulder's light lasgun came up in slow motion, as though coated in molasses. Novikov's mouth was screaming something as his autolaser spooled up, and Terminal with laspistol drawn was barging past me into the UFO shouting at me, "Go long!" with Fiona close behind.

Mulder's warning reached me as my legs pumped into a sprint. I charged headlong into the front of the UFO and the world exploded with the blinding flare of energy weapons.

"Outsider!"

**-TO BE CONTINUED-**

* * *

><p><strong>X-Com Procedures: Seeker Analysis<strong>

Seekers are a unique element of the alien arsenal with breathtaking computational and behavioral heuristics. Whereas aliens tend to be interrupted performing other duties, the Seeker is a vicious, single-minded machine, dedicated to the neutralization of enemy combatants. Able to quickly assess and sort threats, Seekers will move unpredictably towards any X-Com operatives, prioritizing our men and women over civilians, police and even non-X-Com military personnel. Seekers appear to have a highly accurate understanding of human anatomy, for despite their relatively light mass, their preferred method of attack is through gruesome manipulation of limbs, joints and the human neck. A Seeker will latch onto its target with one or more tentacles and then attempt to disable the operative by snapping bones and breaking joints. In the process, their movements are highly erratic and unpredictable, rendering them difficult to bring under effective fire without simultaneously endangering the grappled operative.

* * *

><p>AN: In contrast with the passive-aggressive "just checking if you were paying attention" strangling that they demonstrate in-game, I like to think of Seekers as behaving more like really light-weight, flying versions of the mimics from _Edge of Tomorrow_. ~ Ferrard


	3. Ignatyev III: Panic

**PFC Ignatyev III: Panic**

Strike Team Alpha:

LT. Aleksandr "Juggernaut" Novikov (Gunner)  
>SGT Terminal "Batman" Boy (Assault)<br>CPL Ashley "Chief" Williams (Infantry)  
>LCPL Patricia Martinez (Medic)<br>SPEC Fiona Morrison (Scout)  
>SPEC Hans Mulder (Rocketeer)<br>PFC Andrey Ignatyev (Rookie)

**Carlton Ranch, 5 mi. northwest of Jetmore, Kansas**  
><strong>Crashed Alien Scoutcraft, 0156 Hours, May 16<strong>

The interior of the UFO was ablaze with the glow of lasgun fire streaming from Lieutenant Novikov's autolaser. Beneath the barrage of ruby beams, the Outsider shifted and squirmed behind an alloy recess, very obviously stunned by the sheer volume of fire. Terminal Boy was shouting at me, "Andy, go long!" as my boots pounded against the deck. His laspistol was trained and ready, waiting for the Outsider's move. I shouldered past 'Chief' and her heavy lasgun, similarly fixed at a target that wasn't yet presenting itself.

My nerves were singing something ominous and infused with fear. I felt some terrible compulsion from beyond a veil I'd never even known existed. _Rescue!_ it screamed, and suddenly I knew as I saw the Outsider flinch from the hail of lasers over its head: It was afraid.

The thought struck me as absurd. Outsiders were energy constructs, Dr. Vahlen's literature said. There were no neural structures, no electronic logic circuits to guide its thoughts; no sign that it had thoughts at all. Yet here I was, hearing its scream of terror and its call to its crew. These beings of pure energy, devastatingly powerful and resilient creatures who terrify our veterans.

_We frighten them._

Distantly, I was watching the entire scene unfold: Lieutenant Novikov pinned the outsider in place. Terminal Boy and 'Chief' were ready and waiting to cut down the creature if it tried to move. Morrison was at our six, checking a direct UAV feed as she covered our flank. Mulder and Martinez were too far away to take part. Where did I fit in?

It came to me as I heard 'Chief's voice in my head. _It's just like your special forces training, Andrey – fire superiority and aggression is key. Aliens look all sorts of freaky to us, but they panic and die just like we do if you pour on the fire and overwhelm them._

I kept going. _Go long!_ had been Terminal's order, and I intended to follow it. In slow motion, the angles of the room changed as I charged forward, screaming at the top of my lungs. I slid into place behind a console with strange talismans flickering on its surface and hauled my lasgun around, where it was dawning on the alien that I had a clean shot at it.

Panic rose in my veins, but it wasn't mine. A sense of fulfilled dread rolled up my spine and I watched the alien stagger to its feet in barely concealed terror.

It was subsumed in a blaze of fury – dozens of laser bolts smashed into the creature, burning off small craters everywhere. A lance of ruby emerged from Terminal Boy's laspistol and snapped the creature's rifle in half.

'Chief' finally put the Outsider out of its misery when she cored its chest with a blast from her heavy lasgun. I blinked away a blinding flash of light and the sound of a thunderclap and the alien was no more. The air shimmered where its very existence had lost coherence and evaporated into thermal energy.

My rifle came to a rest where the Outsider had been standing a half-second ago. It was over.

"It's not over," the lieutenant said. "Martinez?"

The medic was sliding into position behind a ruined side panel near the front door. "Yeah, he got off a call."

Lieutenant Novikov nodded and vented his autolaser again. "Which means the rest of the crew is falling back to the ship now. Zander HQ, this is Strike Six."

"Strike Six, this is Zander HQ, go ahead."

"Zander HQ, we've secured the UFO…" I tuned out the lieutenant's chatter and joined Martinez at the panel.

"Martinez," I said. "Why'd the lieutenant ask you that?"

She answered without turning, "They briefed you about it in training, didn't they, rookie? Every human hears the Outsider signals at some level, but it's especially strong for certain people. The eggheads in Research are still trying to figure out why, but whatever the reason, I'm one of them. "

"'Rescue'," I muttered.

That got her attention. She turned away from her lasgun sights and eyed me up and down. "You can hear the words?"

"More like feel them," I said.

She held my gaze for a second, then smiled. "There's hope for you yet, Andrey."

"…concur, Strike Six. Make it happen. Zander HQ out," the commander finished in my left ear. In my right, Lieutenant Novikov came through again.

"Listen up," he said. "We've got ETs coming in from the east. Command says they've got shit for cover out there, so Yellow Team minus Mulder will make a stand here and hold the front door. Mulder, you're with Black Team for firepower. Terminal, take Black Team back to the barn, then punch east and take the X-Rays from the side. The tractors should give you good position, but use your judgment. Questions?"

Terminal slid a new shell into his shotgun and racked the action in reply. "Yeah boss, want us to leave you any?"

"You know how ornery 'Chief' gets when she doesn't have something to shoot at. It's your call, 'Batman'."

"Decisions, decisions, decisions… Black Team, Mulder, _vamanos_!"

The farm was alive with sounds in a way it hadn't been before we entered the UFO. Fences creaked, and the silos across the courtyard groaned in the wind as I padded up against a densely packed bale of hay. A distant chittering floated into our ears like the sound of bickering squirrels. Sectoids.

"Stay close," Terminal said. "Mulder, cover from here. Everyone else, follow me."

A gout of red light to our left announced contact. I couldn't see what they were shooting at, but more ruby beams lanced out into the darkness and no flashes of green came back their way. I could only take that as a good sign.

_Halt_, Terminal signaled as we rounded a corner. I scanned to our left into the darkness. There! A small, grey alien with what looked like a toy strapped to its wrist scampered into view, ducking beneath a blast of lasers. Fire from what was clearly Novikov's autolaser drove another Sectoid back off into the darkness.

The first alien was still in sight though – the Sectoid lifted his arm, and I plucked a grenade from my belt, ready to throw.

Something moved again in the corner of my eye. I flicked my attention to the right as I heard the _snap-whoosh_ of Mulder's rocket launcher. The dying scream of a Sectoid echoed in time with the rocket's explosion as I focused on the movement that had caught my eye.

A third and fourth Sectoid were watching us from the tractors directly ahead.

"Black team, charge, kill 'em all!" Terminal yelled as he pounded forward, shotgun cradled in his hands. He sprinted past the near tractor and dove behind a second one further east. His shotgun roared, and I could see yellow blood spray out from behind the farming equipment.

Just behind him, Fiona pulled her trigger, and an all-too-bright flash erupted from her lasgun. "Shit! Shit, shit, shit!" Fiona was cursing a storm as her gun hissed and vented coolant from a crack in its barrel.

The grenade left my hand. It clanked off the far tractor and fell out of sight.

A wet _thump_ sprayed fragments everywhere but up, sparking off the sides of the tractors, and a pregnant pause followed, even as Fiona smacked her lasgun with her hands. "Fucking fragile piece of shit!" she muttered.

I moved over to her and patted her shoulder as I scanned to our left. "Fiona, grab the laspistol off my belt. Better than your ballistic, and I know it works."

"Thanks, rookie," she said. I felt the weight leave my holster.

A ruby lasgun beam shot out from the door of the UFO, ending in an eruption of superheated steam and ichor. In the field, the Sectoid who'd fled Lieutenant Novikov's fire collapsed into the dirt.

"Andy," Terminal was saying. "Look at this, you landed the grenade right under the poor bastard."

He was right. The Sectoid's corpse was utterly shredded, the pieces almost unrecognizable. "You told us to kill them all. I felt it was appropriate."

"Shit, you can be my grenadier any day!" he said.

"Strike Six, this is Zander HQ, come in."

"Zander HQ, Strike Six. Go ahead."

"UAV recon shows negative enemy contact, good job Strike Team Alpha." Terminal fist-bumped Fiona as the commander continued. "Establish a perimeter and keep the crash site secure. Salvage teams are spooling up now, ETA 2 hours."

* * *

><p><strong>Carlton Ranch, 5 mi. northwest of Jetmore, Kansas<strong>  
><strong>LZ Orel, 0347 Hours, May 16<strong>

We were finally off duty. The first Osprey had been loaded with a squad of X-Com security personnel in skyblue fatigues. Their ballistic weapons were useless against the aliens we faced now, but they were sufficient to take over site security from us. You didn't need a lasgun to warn off curious civilians, after all.

More Ospreys and a whole convoy of flatbed trucks followed. American National Guard troops. One of Dr. Shen's senior advisors set up a command post for the salvage operation in the nearby house where Martinez and I had found the farm's owners. Dead. Our kevlar and X-SAPI plates were hardly much armor against plasma fire, but it was very obviously better than civilian clothes.

Big Sky lifted off ten minutes later. I watched out the porthole as engineers swarmed over the UFO, cutting torches slicing huge chunks of alloy off the spacecraft and cranes lifting them onto flatbed trucks for transport back to base. The ride was smooth, and some eight times faster than those lumbering Ospreys had been. I closed my eyes.

* * *

><p><strong>X-Com "Zander" HQ - Cheyanne Mountain, Colorado<br>Hanger Prime, 0403 hours, May 16**

We arrived back at base after another thirty, a tent set up from the back of the skyranger to the isolation door. Biohazard suits went into the skyranger with heavy duty alkaloid solutions after we left.

Isolation started with an equipment room. We disrobed, our lasguns, armor, equipment, everything placed in disinfectant hoods.

The shower was functional – no curtains that would have to be decontaminated, just bare showerheads and a drain in the center of the room. We didn't mind. The man or woman skinning by you now was the soldier you trusted to keep you alive two hours ago. You can't ever be more naked than you are in battle.

Clad in fresh scrubs, a conference room of metal tables and metal chairs was our next stop. Central Officer Bradford appeared on the screen at one end of the room and began a remote interview from somewhere else in base. More faces on the screen showed almost all the observers. I noticed the commander wasn't on the screen – not that it meant he or she wasn't watching.

The after-action report started our five days in quarantine. As with the Strike Teams ahead of us, none of us ever came down with alien measles.

* * *

><p><strong>X-Com Procedures: Recruiting Requirements<strong>

To be selected for the X-Com initiative, a potential soldier must meet many requirements, some overt, and some not. Raw combat-oriented skill and ability is just the bare minimum. Once the minimum cut of ability is passed, recruits are then screened for a variety of other factors, including, but not limited to: high technical aptitude, prior scientific training, battlefield adaptability, lack of national loyalty, high political objectivity, psychological hardiness and a moderate to high level of sociopathy. Some of these requirements would create public and private furor if revealed, but they are very necessary. An X-Com soldier must be more loyal to humanity as a whole than their home country, hometown and even their own family. As proven during the recent attack on Hong Kong, an X-Com soldier who hesitates in shooting a biologically compromised civilian or comrade may very well doom the mission. The extra-terrestrial threat demands nothing but the best of humanity in all aspects. Our fifty-odd troopers must be the best and brightest, for they are the souls who stand between mankind and total extinction.

* * *

><p>AN: Fiona's laser rifle didn't actually break and overheat, but she -did- somehow roll a 3 for her damage, requiring Ignatyev's stellar grenade toss. And quarantine is how I explain the Long War fatigue-timer. ~ Ferrard


	4. Morel I: Cordon

**LCPL Morel I: Cordon**

**Strike Team Charlie-Orange:**

LT Xhosa "Black Mamba" Cissoko (Engineer) Strike Charlie-Six

CPL Ingrid "Orn" Jensen (Sniper)

LCPL Kostya Pavlov (Gunner)

SPEC Lars Dekker (Assault)

9 X-Com Military Police

**Strike Team Charlie-Blue:**

CPL P.V.T. "Godfather" Bones (Scout) Strike Charlie-Five

LCPL Brittany Peterson (Gunner)

LCPL Thierry Morel (Infantry)

9 X-Com Military Police: MP Jackson Cooper, MP Claudia Estes, MP Rachid Farouk, MP Jesus Mendoza, MP Penelope Taggert, MP Emma Vandenberg, MP Julie Vandenberg, MP Rachel Xiao, MP Kenneth Yamamoto

**Eastern Pacific off the California Coast, Mach 1.2 at 37,000 ft and climbing  
>Concorde F-BTSD, 0104 Hours Local, May 25<strong>

I was worried.

It had been decades since I had last flown in a Concorde. It was this exact plane too. VIP treatment for the unsung heroes of a sensitive operation in Ethiopia in '99, one of whom was then-fresh-faced _caporal_ Thierry Morel, my FAMAS still stained with the blood of an Eritrean guard who'd fallen to the bayonet. Now the fuselage was filled with Strike Team Charlie and nearly two-dozen blue-clad men and women, most fingering their traditional rifles nervously. Chryssalids needed lasguns, not bullets, and X-Com military police simply were not on the same level as we soldiers. They made me worry.

Another veteran of '99 was at the head of the cabin. She'd been one of the roughly clad Ethiopian irregulars running interference for the rescue op, and damn if they hadn't done a good job of it at the time. Xhosa Cissoko must've made a name for herself after we left, because here she was, commander of today's Strike Team Charlie during an op calling for the deployment of all three ready teams. That made me worry.

And most damning, my lucky socks were still in quarantine. That made me worry most of all.

Lieutenant Cissoko was speaking. "You've all heard the rumors. My job is to make sure those rumors don't kill you, so listen up!" She definitely knew her stuff – just got frocked last week after single-handedly salvaging an op-gone bad against some of those thin, reptilian freaks. "Forty minutes ago, X-Com got the word: Aliens hit Hong Kong. Reports on the ground look like a repeat of their attack on Shanghai – no abductions, no specific target, just indiscriminate slaughter of everyone in sight. We aim to stop this. 'Big Sky' and Strike Team Alpha will make Earthfall over Hong Kong in an hour-and-a-half, to secure VIPs currently hiding in 2IFC. It's one of the big skyscrapers, can't tell you which one and frankly I don't care. Strike Team Bravo in the back has some transit center they need to regain control of for the Chinese military. Again, don't know where it is and I don't care.

"Strike Team Charlie and every single one of you sorry bastards is in charge of isolating the island of Hong Kong. The Chinese are fighting a losing battle to contain the x-rays – they've already blown one tunnel, and the other two are nearly overrun – we will help them hold the line, and we will push the alien bastards back across the water and keep them from breaking onto the mainland. Our three strike teams will blaze a path into the city for Chinese regulars to follow and mop up."

The lieutenant paused. "My next words are specifically for you security grunts. This is not what you signed up for, but this is what you will be doing. You have the skills we need. Many of you are in heavy consideration to become our second flight of X-Com soldiers. Consider this a field audition. You will be split into Orange and Blue teams, corseted with and commanded by members of Strike Team Charlie. You will stick with your Charlie soldiers at all times, you will follow their instructions and you will watch the ass of everyone around you. If you do all three tasks, then you will survive. Fail any one, and Dr. Vahlen will be through with your autopsy before you're cold on the slab. Do I make myself clear?"

"Sir, yes sir!" I and the five other members of Strike Team Charlie bellowed in the cabin. The grunts looked confused, though a few half-heartedly repeated after us.

"Let me try that again. Follow Charlie, and you will survive. Do not, and you will not. _Do I make myself clear?"_

I wouldn't have been surprised if the aliens halfway around the world heard us respond.

* * *

><p><strong>2 km north of Western Harbour Crossing entrance<strong>  
><strong>Yúyīng 2, 2148 Hours, May 25<strong>

The Mi-8 was shiny and new as it swished through the air with us in the passenger seats – it must have rolled off a licensed production line just a short while ago. The Chinese stencils were un-scuffed and pristine, and the engine sounded a hell of a lot better than the Hips I had rode in before.

Below us, our landing zone was stationary while we orbited, scouting the area with our own eyes while the commander flew his UAVs around from half-a-world away. The LZ was abandoned, a rough cobblestone square bordered by storefronts along the east and a seawall to the west. To the south, the earth fell away into a gaping hole through which we could get to Hong Kong… or the aliens could escape. The helicopter shuddered as our pilot reversed his turn and began an approach vector. The commander must have given the go order.

I couldn't tell if 'Godfather' or Peterson across the aisle had ever shared the Mi-8 experience. Australian and Canadian respectively – I hadn't worked with ANZAC elite very often, but I couldn't imagine their inventory of Russian helicopters to be very extensive. They looked nervous about the shrill whine of the engines at speed, as did the nine MPs in back.

Or maybe it was the landing zone ahead of us.

"Hey 'Godfather,'" one of the grunts asked on the intercom. Her nametag labeled her as Xiao. "You're sure about what we'll find down there?"

"Sure as we can be, Xiao," he replied. "Chryssalids don't play around. Intel spotted zombies in all stages of gestation – some of them have already hatched, some of them are fresh. Either way, it means the 'lids are there, whether we see them in overhead imagery or not."

"How do we deal with them?" asked Farouk, Peterson's assistant with an entire backpack of coolant for her lascannon.

"Shoot 'em before they claw you." 'Godfather' would know – he was on that first encounter in Shanghai, and again at that cursed fishing village. "And don't stop shooting until they stop twitching."

Another of the grunts piped up. Cooper was his name. "You have family there, Xiao?"

"Hell no," she replied. "I don't have family anywhere. Just want to know how we get out alive."

"I can't imagine how I'd feel if they attacked Cleveland," Cooper began to ramble. I tuned him out as he continued, and 'Godfather' gave me and Peterson a meaningful glance – now we knew why Cooper hadn't made the original cut.

Mandarin came over the intercom. Helpfully, Xiao translated for us. "We're thirty seconds out."

The three of us flicked off our lasgun safeties, and our weapons whined as their capacitors gathered charge and the coolant preemptively cycled. Around us, bolt carriers slammed home on fat, shiny brass, the old-school ballistics jangling and clanking in a way I no longer found comforting. Emma and Julie Vandenberg, the Belgian sisters, were muttering a brief prayer together under their breath. Yúyīng 2's engines changed pitch as the helicopter flared and committed to the square below us.

"Strike Charlie-Five, this is Zander HQ, priority alert!" The commander's distorted voice suddenly in my right ear sent my pulse into overdrive – across the aisle, 'Godfather' grew grave. "Blue Team LZ is hot, repeat, Blue Team LZ is hot! UAV recon has floaters and zombies coming out of the woodwork – get down and defend yourselves!"

A burst of panicked Mandarin on the intercom was the first sign. The horrible sound of plasma burning into the floor from below was the second, and Yúyīng 2 smashing down on its landing gear was the last. The crew chief screamed and clutched her trigger, spraying 7.62mm rounds in a wide arc at targets unknown. MP Taggert hauled the door open and we poured out, ballistics and lasguns blazing.

Neither the commander nor 'Godfather' barked any orders – they weren't needed. Our arcs had been assigned from the very start of our helicopter ride, and they were filled with targets. Our lasguns flared and ballistic rifles barked in an ever-expanding ring around the chopper as we pressed for cover. Behind us, the engines whined and Yúyīng 2 clawed back into the air. My heavy lasgun drilled a trio of ruby bolts into a floater taking aim at 'Godfather,' and it sank to the ground with a gout of gore and flame. The MPs were laying down a steady stream of lead into the countless zombies in front of us, leaving 'Godfather' and I to prioritize the nimble aliens flitting from cover to cover and launching in great spiraling arcs. All the while, Peterson and Farouk were barreling towards a solid redoubt behind the nearby seawall, coolant pack bouncing off his back as she hurriedly readied her weapon for deployment.

Another floater was skewered at the top of its spiraling trajectory by red light, victim of 'Godfather's lasgun. More bullets smashed into nearby cars and buildings, hopefully pinning aliens in place even as we found firing positions. Behind us, a sickly flash of green light smashed into Yúyīng 2's tail, burning a hole clean through the boom. The hardy aluminum hull around the wound held firm. 'Godfather' drove off the offending floater with a spray of lasgun fire even as the chopper girded itself and powered through its battle damage to rise into the night sky. Another floater soared into the air after the stricken Mi-8, but automatic fire from MPs Mendoza and Taggert beat the alien back and away, trailing a disgusting mix of fuel and blood, but still very much alive.

The tide turned when Peterson's lascannon opened its vents and went cyclic. Ruby beams drenched the seafront square as excess coolant billowed from the weapon's vents. Entire ranks of zombies seemingly evaporated under high-intensity firepower, and our MPs slackened their own fire as the zombies thinned and the remaining floaters faded away into the darkness. MP Xiao was the last to shoot, splitting open a zombie's head with a carefully aimed steel-jacketed bullet.

"Was that it?" Emma Vandenberg asked.

Her sister punched her shoulder. "Never say that!"

'Godfather' took the lead. "Right everyone. Peterson, Farouk, Morel, on watch. Everyone else, thirty second check. Zander HQ, this is Strike Charlie-Five."

"Wait one, Strike Charlie-Five." I triggered the rapid cooldown cycle and my heavy lasgun sighed in relief. It had finished belching steam by the time Zander HQ got back on the horn with us. "Go ahead Strike Charlie-Five."

"Charlie Blue-LZ cleared of x-rays. One mag expended per, no casualties, no equipment spent. Intel and orders?"

"I copy successful insertion, Strike Charlie-Five. UAV recon shows floaters falling back south to the tunnel. More zombies approaching from the same direction. Bound south to the tunnel and immediately begin pressing through. Alpha's under siege with wounded in 2IFC and needs you to take off the pressure."

"Wilco, commander. Strike Charlie-Five out."

"Look alive," I said to the three MPs in my sub-team, Taggert, Yamamoto and Xiao.

"We head south," 'Godfather' said. "Morel, your team on the left, Peterson on the right along that low wall. I'll take point. We move until contact – if it's zombies, we burn 'em down and keep moving. Anything else, break for best positions and engage with Peterson and Morel as fire and myself as maneuver. Understood?"

We nodded.

"Then let's go."

'Godfather' squared his lasgun and set off, MPs Cooper, Estes and Mendoza close behind. Peterson's team and my own followed on his flanks. The air smelt of drying blood, burning plastic and seared asphalt. Multicolored light flashed on the opposite shore of Victoria Bay. The glass canyons across the water reflected far more green than red as we descended into the darkened maw of the Western Harbour Crossing.

* * *

><p><strong>X-Com Equipment: VX-77 Skyranger<strong>

From the Lockheed Skunkworks labs that produced the celebrated SR-71 Blackbird and the still-classified Aurora project came one of the most impressive black-ops projects known to mankind. The VX-77 debuted quietly in 2014 as an operational prototype and participated in four American covert operations around the world prior to its incorporation into the X-Com initiative, deploying to Afghanistan, ISIL-controlled Iraq, the Nigerian hinterland and the Philippines. Like the Aurora before it, the Skyranger outstrips any traditional aircraft by leaving Earth's atmosphere on sub-orbital trajectories, using an incredibly expensive and complex non-ablative ceramic heatshield to withstand atmospheric re-entry. The bulky aircraft uses a classified power source originally envisioned in the '60s to achieve an unbelievably incredible thrust-to-weight ratio with all three engine systems: vectored thrust turbofans, high-altitude scramjets, and closed-cycle thrusters for sub-orbital maneuvers. Unfortunately, only one prototype exists, with a second in the final stages of production in a hidden Lockheed plant. After X-Com's failure to contain the Chongqing Massacre proved that the deployment and support of multiple Strike Teams demanded more transport capacity, the Initiative requisitioned and restored Concorde F-BTSD in record time to serve as secondary transport in the interim. The aged airframe finished refits in time to debut during X-Com's response to the Hong Kong Incident.

* * *

><p>AN: So, I've taken enough liberties with this mission that the only real similarities are that the mission took place in Hong Kong, the listed operatives really were the team, and it featured 'lids and floaters. It was on that roadway underpass with zero cover to the left of the default spawn. Obviously, for the sake of narrative, I've gone in a completely different direction from "seven dudes and dudettes land, kill all aliens, and return to base," because I think there's a wider story behind the terror missions than your typical abduction or UFO crash / landing. ~ Ferrard


End file.
